Fishblight Mire i told the devil to take you back

If he was going to get dirty, he was going to get dirty. Yes, the mire smelled enough to make his whiskers curl, but after a while he became desensitized even to that. But a little mud wouldn't hurt him, so long as he was careful not to get too bogged down. Sriracha was a clever man, and kept to the mire's highest and dryest patches of land when he could. And when he couldn't, he wasn't afraid to get dirty. Rather than try and drag his legs through the mud, he hopped along. It meant that each time he sank deep into the mud.

After nearly an hour in the mire, Sriracha was coated in mud. From the bottom of his chin to the tops of his legs. He never let it get over his head or his back, but it came up along his ribs and stuck thick to his stomach. This was no matter. A nice, long soak in a stream or a lake or a river would clean him up. 

The mire seemed to go on forever, as most trying times did. Time and space narrowed to the distance from one dry(er) patch to the next, slowing to a crawl as he slogged through thick, stinking mud. Only the woman's voice caught his attention, and had she remained silent, he would have passed her by. Ears twitching, his eyes searched the mire until he found her, a creature draped in grey and brown. For a moment he only watched, wondering if this was an advanced fuego fatuo. Then, seeing the woman delve only deeper into the dark, he shouted, hey there! Señorita! Señora! Hey! What are you doing?